


Show Me Your Cork

by Jaydeun



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Corks, Embarrassment, Idiots in Love, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Wine, oopsies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 19:20:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydeun/pseuds/Jaydeun
Summary: Aziraphale misreads a sign at the wine bar. Oopsies. Good thing Crowley is there to redirect.First in a series of shared prompts, One Prompt; What Do?





	Show Me Your Cork

The sign hung against the wall of a cozy wine bar in Holborn, and Aziraphale had been casting dubious glances at it for some quarter of an hour. He and Crowley had decided upon the venue principally because neither had serious objections to the naming conventions.[i]_ It lacks style_ had been Crowley’s only complaint, but the interior had low lights and tucked away booths, and despite his complaints about preferring a modern aesthetic, it suited his tastes just fine. In fact, the demon had relaxed so much into the slightly worn upholstery of their (possibly romantic) nook in the corner, that he hadn’t immediately noticed Aziraphale’s constantly wandering eye.

“Really, though,” Aziraphale huffed, refocusing upon Crowley. “Don’t you think that’s a touch… _obscene_?”

Crowley had been swirling a glass of Bourgogne with one far-too-supple wrist and made the mistaken assumption that he was doing so rather too well.

“Thanks, angel,” he grinned toothily, only to be swatted at.

“Not _you_, you silly thing. The sign.” Aziraphale wriggled his eyebrows, as if willing them to do the work of pointing behind him. “It’s so—well. They don’t have to be so bold about it.”

Crowley pushed up his sunglasses, wrinkled his nose, and squinted at the sign. _We Want Your Corks. _It was hand-painted; seeing well in dim light, he could tell that some of the paint had begun to fleck.

“Don’t see what’s so wrong with that,” he admitted, letting his glasses slide into place again. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and took a sip of wine.

“I should have known _you _wouldn’t mind it. Personally, I don’t like being asked for _mine_.”

“For hell’s sake, angel, it’s not a sin to collect them, is it?” Crowley tapped the bottle cork on the table for emphasis. “Maybe they have an art project in mind.”

“An _art_ _project_!” Aziraphale squeaked, a pink flush hovering over apricot cheeks. He cleared his throat with some difficulty. “Well goodness. I wouldn’t want to judge, of course. I just… Do you think they _photograph_ them?”[ii]

Crowley dropped the cork and it rolled across the table. He had been trying to think what they were used for; cork boards. That seemed likely. Pin cushions? He’d had a hand in starting the trend toward scrap-booking, and especially with the introduction of glitter tape ad impossible to meet standards of cut-out perfection…but he didn’t remember corks being involved. And he could not think of any reason in the world you would want to photograph the things.

“Em?’ he said. Then, for clarity’s sake, “Wah?”

Aziraphale puckered his lips and did his own best eyebrow raise. Crowley’s speech had a tendency to regress to monosyllable on occasion, and while he found this generally endearing, he was just then trying to have a civil discussion about the nature of indecency.

“Well surely they don’t intend to _keep_ them here, do they? The idea!” And as if on cue, the idea asserted itself; Aziraphale did try to keep up on the Arts, and he had read about living sculptures—and “Oh. Oh _my_.”

“Angel, you are sort of—glowing?” Crowley mentioned it only because a bright pink slightly incandescent angel attracts attention. Said angel was now fanning himself with the menu at the thought of spectators… _spectating. _It seemed so terribly vulnerable.

“Well, they aren’t getting _yours_,” Aziraphale sputtered at last. Crowley’s eyes darted to the cork.

“They aren’t?”

“_NO._”

Crowley flicked the cork into Aziraphale’s lap with one long finger.

“Okay, then.” He then settled back into a liquid lounge. “You give ‘em yours instead.”

Aziraphale made a gulping sound, and nearly choked on wine. After taking a moment to ensure he hadn’t spotted his cream colored trousers, he gaped at Crowley.

“You _can’t _be serious!”

“Oh for heav—hell—Have mercy, Aziraphale! If you don’t want to share, that’s fine! They can take mine if they want it.”[iii]

“Oh no they can’t!” Aziraphale popped out of his seat, hands clutched into fists at his hips. “If they need them that badly, I’ll do it!”

Crowley opened his mouth to reply, but didn’t have a chance. Aziraphale marched through the tight confines of the bar toward the back, all swooping coat and valiant elbows.

“What _is _he on about?” Crowley asked out loud of nobody. Aziraphale disappeared through the swinging kitchen doors, an action which was followed first by a sudden surprised silence. And then by a great clatter—as if someone had just dropped something on the floor in surprise.[iv]

A few seconds later, Aziraphale came marching straight back, and if he’d been pink before, he now looked positively lobster. His eyes had a slightly wild character about them as well, and when he sat back down—on the very near edge of his seat—his smile bore a distinct resemblance to brittle plastic.

“Corks,” he chirped. “We want to see your _corks_.”

Crowley’s brain was doing a slow lap around a big track.

“Aziraphale, I have no idea what is happening right now,” he admitted. Aziraphale shrunk into himself, wincing as the kitchen doors swung open and a very animated probably-manager approached their table.

“That’s…not what I thought it said,” he said meekly. And at last, Crowley made the crucial connection.

“Oh. Oh _no_ you—tell me you didn’t show them your—” It was preposterous. Utterly the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard of. But the urge to laugh (really side-split and possibly slither onto the floor in apoplectic and uncontrollable guffaws) was held at bay by Aziraphale’s utter look of dismay.

“Sirs,” the man stood over them now. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. You can’t go offering to show people your—”

“I am _so_ sorry,” Aziraphale fussed, jostling the table and both wine glasses. “I do hope he wasn’t offended!”[v]

“Won’t be if he can’t remember it,” Crowley said, snapping his fingers. The manager suddenly hadn’t the faintest idea what he was doing at their table... Meanwhile, the prep-chef, who was _not at all_ bothered by an attractive gentleman with cotton-white curls politely asking if he’d like to become acquainted with his intimate parts, suddenly forgot why he had such a pleasant buzzing sensation in his stomach.

“Em, more wine, gentlemen?” the manager asked. Crowley lifted his glass and allowed the fellow to pour before ambling away bemused. Then he turned his attention to Aziraphale, who was still shimmering with embarrassment.

“Thank you, dear,” he whispered, blue eyes creeping up jut enough to meet Crowley’s. Crowley slid the sunglasses off to give him the benefit of pupils for the occasion.

“Angel, you got nothing to apologize for except bad distance vision in a dark room,” he said. Then he held out his hand for Aziraphale to take.

“That’s very kind of you, Crowley.”

“Ssst, what did I say about that word, eh?” Crowley said, but without any heat at all. He gave Azirphale’s hand a squeeze, then reached down to pick something up off the floor. A playful grin tickled his features as he dropped it into Aziraphale’s palm. “So angel, what say we go home and you show me your _cork_?”

[i] An unfortunate consequence of immortality is the tendency to lose all patience with clever puns like “Un-wine-d” and “De-Vine,” not to mention real offenders like “Planet of the Grapes.” This modest location—on Kirby street—opted for clarity and practicality: Kirby Street Wine Bar.

[ii] At this point, most people would have likely realized they were not, in fact, talking about the same thing. Most people are not idiots in love, however.

[iii] This, in light of their present miscommunication, was not the right thing to say.

[iv] Which is, in fact, what happened. His name was Tony, a prep chef, and up till now his day had not been going very well at all.

[v] He wasn’t.


End file.
